


A Beautiful Friendship

by Dartington



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: Divorce, F/F, Female Friendship, Female Relationships, Gen, Kindness, Loss of Parent(s), Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-26 12:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3851809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dartington/pseuds/Dartington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brenda discovers that Sharon might just be the friend with benefits she didn't know she was looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carbs and Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> This series was prompted by the 2015 Closer/Major Crimes FicFest. My prompt was Friends with Benefits, although my interpretation of benefits is broad. New chapters to be added weekly, once the FicFest goes live on May 3rd.
> 
> Fair Warning: there is romance and love between two consenting, adult women herein. If this ain't your thing, then there's nothing worth reading for you here. Disclaimers at the end.

“Well,” drawled Brenda, “you’re full of hidden talents.”

Sharon’s glasses had slipped down a bit, and Brenda found herself on the receiving end of an awfully sharp, green-eyed gaze. It was easy to forget how green those eyes were, so often shielded by the lenses Sharon favored. She lazily held the other woman’s look, and watched the sharpness turn mossy.

“I’m glad you liked them. And, I see you eat with great enthusiasm, rather like a convict. Brenda Leigh, you do chew, do you not?”

“Silly! ‘Course I do. But when pancakes are this amazin’, you don’t waste time. ‘Sides, there’s a syrup to pancake to heat ratio that is one of God’s lesser known commandments, but to be followed all the same.”

Sharon _hmmed_ , and smiled despite herself. She eyed the spotless plate, then Brenda, saw a hopeful look and poured another round of batter on the griddle. Brenda’s gleeful smile said enough, but the woman actually squeezed her eyes shut and wiggled in anticipation. Sharon shook her head. _Oh, Willie Ray. What this woman must have been like as a child._

The pancakes bubbled, filling the kitchen with a soft sizzle and warm, inviting scent. Brenda swallowed. This time she’d put just a tad bit more butter on the stack, then let the syrup sink in, slowly. Let the batter be a sponge. Gosh, that was good syrup Sharon had. Of course it would be. Maybe sprinkle a little of that cocoa powder on top…

Sharon watched as Brenda, elbow propped on the countertop and chin cushioned in hand, floated away to some confection-laden la la land. The woman’s eyes were glazed, cheeks slightly flushed and her lips were parted. For heaven’s sake, if just the idea of a second round of pancakes did this, she worried that Brenda might slip quietly into an anticipatory, sugar-induced coma. And how would she explain that one? She continued watching as the younger woman moistened her lower lip, drawing it in after her tongue, absently teasing it between her teeth. That pink, pouty lip was in trouble if she didn’t do something fast.

“Coffee, Brenda? Brenda, coffee? _Brenda?_ ” She waited a beat more. “Investigator Johnson!”

Brenda’s chin snapped off her palm as she tore away from her fantasy pancake stack. She felt briefly off kilter, caught out, but then her eyes traveled to the slightly quirked corner of the older woman’s lips, and further, to the coffee pot she saw Sharon patiently holding. Eyebrows arched, she tilted the carafe. “Coffee, Brenda Leigh?”

“Oh. Yeah. Yes, please,” she corrected. Her momma might be gone, but her etiquette lessons remained. And certainly this wonderful breakfast treat qualified as a something to be deeply, soulfully appreciative of. She straightened in her chair. “Thank you, Sharon, so much. You’re too good to me.”

“Nonsense. With Rusty at college it’s a pleasure to have the company. And after the last couple weeks we’ve had, I think we could both use a little spoiling. Heaven knows there’s been little enough to enjoy with this last investigation. But,” she flipped the last pancake over, pressing it a little. “Case closed. Your office is handling the details.” She looked at her guest, offered a wan smile. Her eyes felt dry, tired. “Working all night doesn’t get easier, does it?” Brenda shook her head with genuine commiseration. “We both need some carbohydrates, caffeine. And, well, it’s been nice working with you again,” Sharon paused, assessing perfectly golden pancakes. She slid them onto the plate, held out the syrup. _“Chief.”_

A couple years earlier and Brenda would have smarted, reacting on pure principle. But since becoming friends, she understood the woman’s ways. She had long since realized that she looked forward to Sharon’s provocations, her dry humor, her obsessive note-taking—all of which worked to obscure the caring woman underneath. The woman who took in stray boys and made them whole. The woman who worked within the system and had clean wins. The woman who was feeding her pancakes. She reached out for the excellent syrup and sighed. She supposed the way Rick and Renault would always have Paris, they’d always have that first horrid, hospital meeting where Brenda, tired, intimidated, put off and worried had pulled rank. She returned the smile.

“Thank you, _Captain_ , don’t mind if I do.”


	2. the comfort of couches

“Ugh…” Brenda groaned. “You’re killin’ me, Cap’n Raydor. I don’t, I truly don’t think I can move. Ima have to move in.”

“Promises, promises,” clucked Sharon Raydor tartly.  “Honestly, Brenda. No one forced you to eat those last pancakes. You’ll get no sympathy here.”

_Cow_ , Brenda thought. _Without a shred of decency or concern for my imminent demise_. “But it wudda been a sin to throw out that last lil’ bit a batter! And after you worked so hard.” Here, Sharon rolled her eyes, which Brenda affected to ignore.  “Anyway, 'waste not, want not _'_ my momma always said! At least you’ll have the satisfaction of watching me in my final hours. I can see it now: Chief Investigator Johnson, found dead in home of arch rival, Captain Raydor of the LAPD.” She theatrically groaned again, and with a last grasp at dignity, dislodged herself from her chair and tottered over to Sharon’s couch. She gingerly lowered herself and immediately sank into its welcoming depths. She wanted to resent the couch for its incredible coziness and how it made hers, by comparison, seem cheap and hard. But she was coming to accept the fact that her couch, like many things in her life, hadn’t mattered when she spent so much at the LAPD . And now? Her new job and frequently regular hours exposed the deficiencies of what few things she had left. She sighed. Everything Sharon had was nice. Everything Sharon had was comforting.

“Arch rival? Is that all? I’d much prefer _nemesis_. It has a real ring to it. Besides, I know people in low places. There’s no way your body would be found here. In a worst case scenario, I’m sure I could rope Chief Howard into helping. Not only would he deeply sympathize, he wouldn’t ask questions. Furthermore, I feel quite certain he’d furnish me with an alibi.” Thus delivering her fatal blow, Sharon turned smartly away, taking Brenda’s shockingly well-scraped, yet still sticky dish with her. She’s missed their sparring. She’d missed Brenda. But if possible, Brenda’s life had become more complicated after she’d left the LAPD and true to form, she avoided talking about it. Sharon dismissed intra-office gossip, but Ann McGinnis was different. They went way back. It was from Ann that Sharon was really kept in the loop. She was sure Chief Howard would be appalled.

“You wound me, Sharon Raydor, you do. But you Yanks never have known how ta talk to people. Why did I ever think bein’ your friend would work? It musta been all the food wooing. Yes, you’ve wooed me with food. Delicious, sinful: it’s witchcraft. Makes sense to me now, all those pictures of you on the murder board, broom ‘n’ all. I shoulda paid attention. ”

Sharon _mmmed_ absently from the kitchen and continued to rinse their breakfast dishes. The sounds were oddly comforting for Brenda. Memories of her momma surfaced, kept surfacing, really, at the most unexpected times. _This is the reality of mourning_ , she mused. It caught you by surprise, triggered by the mundane. A few weeks back it had been a song on the radio. Last week, she’d stubbed her toe and burst into hot, sudden tears. Yesterday it had been a peppermint stick.

She missed her momma with a sharp, breath-taking pain. If only she’d stopped and said, “Sure momma, what do you wanna talk about?” They could have sat on the porch and sipped her momma's favorite chamomile tea. She could have heard her momma out. Had Willie Ray suspected she wasn’t well? Was it something about her daddy, or Brenda herself? Had her momma noticed Fritz’s brittleness? It hardly mattered which, simply making time to talk would have been better than this endless dwelling. Brenda sifted through the questions every day. She couldn’t bear to think about them, she couldn’t bear not to. She hadn’t been able to talk to Fritz because he always tried to fix everything and had kept pushing for their lives to get back to normal. And she couldn’t talk about her sadness because it pointed an accusing finger right back at herself. She felt unsalvageable.

She’d found herself seeking out the balm of Sharon’s companionship. Sharon had been so consistent and practical when Brenda had headed up Major Crimes, even when they’d been at odds. She counted on Sharon to be calm and dependable. And the former witch of FID didn’t seem interested in judging her. Sharon, she had quite belatedly realized, protected her. And it felt okay. It felt okay because she wasn’t asking for anything that Brenda didn’t think she could give. She just sort of orbited around her, made suggestions, made pancakes, made her crazy sometimes, but never made her feel worse. She simply took her as she was and it didn’t seem to bother her that these days who she was, was a bit of a moving target. Had it been the same way for Rusty? Because he’d come to Sharon as a street kid, a hustler stabbed by a psychopath. And the kid was in college now, and drove a Volvo for pity’s sake.

Actually, hadn’t DDA Hobbs said something about David’s replacement… _Sykes_...teaching Rusty how to drive? And how Buzz had been nearly driven to distraction mentoring the kid through AP classes. And a few months ago, when she’d bumped into Andy and he’d been bitching about Tao and something called Shield of Truth? Hadn’t he said something about how Tao had set the kid up with an internship? The mind boggled. Brenda tried to imagine how it would have been, bringing her old team into her private life like that. She couldn’t. But somehow _that woman_ had. Not only that, it appeared the team found ways to involve themselves with Rusty, which was by extension putting themselves out for Sharon. How had the wicked witch transformed them all into a family, she wondered?

Brenda yawned and sank deeper into the couch, her mind distracted. She didn’t want to keep her eyes open, she didn’t want to think. She was tired, sure, after the awful case they’d finally finished. But the deeper fatigue of saddness was what kept weighing her down. And she knew she should help Sharon tidy up. She should at least make an attempt, _say_ something about helping. She could hear her momma trying to shoo her off the couch, admonishing her rudeness, but her eyes were so heavy, the couch so soft…

“I have raised three teenaged children, Brenda. Two of them boys: one tall as a tree, one a bottomless pit, and Emily was so active she always ate like it was a vocation. But never have I ever seen anyone put away that much pancake in a single setting.” Sharon bumped the dishwasher shut and pressed start. Scooping up their coffee mugs, she headed for the living room. “And my goodness. Where do you put it all? If I ate like that I’d be trapped in my home. You tear through sweets and sugar like—“

There, sprawled on the couch in an impressive imitation of a melted Salvador Dali clock, Brenda Leigh snored softly. Whatever Sharon intended to say was forgotten as she sighed and took in the glorious mess that was her friend Brenda. She quietly placed both mugs on the coffee table, then pulled the comforter from the back of her chair and draped it over her Chief. She gently shifted some pillows, working Brenda into a less debilitating tangle. _Oh, to be able to sleep like that again. To not wake up with vague images of violent endings at depressing crime scenes._ What would that feel like, she wondered? Maybe she needed a vacation. She’d been feeling more flat and down than usual. Though she suspected much of it had to do with missing Rusty, she also knew that if she went on much longer like this, she’d start to burn out. This last case. Too awful to think about. Too bad it wouldn’t be the last. How much longer could she, did she want, to keep immersing herself in the worst the city had to offer?

She looked at Brenda’s face, smooth in slumber and Sharon felt herself drawn in, yawning. Why not? she thought and discretely tucked herself into the corner of couch, careful not to disturb.  Maybe she’d read a little more of that dance magazine Em had left behind. Or maybe, she reached for the remote, catch up a bit on Badge of Justice?  But as she settled back against the pillows, a long two weeks-worth of late nights and early mornings asserted themselves. Sharon’s eyes burned a bit as they closed. _Really have to get some drops_ , she thought, and then she slipped into a blissful fog.

As she drifted into sleep, a groggy “Night, Cap’n. Sweet dreams, now” echoed softly in her head.

 


	3. another brunch

Sharon allowed that some things really were worth indulging. Mimosas were one. That lovely combination of sweet and tangy effervescence. A perfect counterpoint to the waffles that Brenda had done her best to drown in syrup. It had taken absolutely zero effort to induce said sugar fiend to join her. A couple weeks had passed since they’d last breakfasted together. A breakfast that had ended with both women passed out from exhaustion on the couch. They’d awoken somewhat awkwardly, commiserated a bit about the pitfalls of aging and stiffness, then said congenial goodbyes. And Brenda had hugged her, actually hugged her goodbye! She’d been so surprised it had taken her a few full, deep breaths before her brain caught up to offer what her body automatically had: a returned embrace. If Brenda seemed to cling to her just a bit longer than strictly necessary, Sharon had been willing to overlook it.

She had, however, noted that Brenda seemed reluctant to leave—not her usual m.o.— and she was also making an effort to stay in touch. A couple phone calls to thank Sharon, again, for the pancakes, to apologize for falling asleep. A couple texts for no reason; something was definitely up with Brenda. It set off mild alarms for Sharon, though she couldn’t pin down exactly why she felt that way or what precisely might be causing it. With Brenda there were any number of things that could set off alarms for Sharon, and that was on a good day. Though the Chief was definitely acting oddly, Sharon’s curiosity could wait. In her experience with tricky informants, shy children and the occasional spooked animal: an oblique approach often lead to far more telling outcomes that trying to hit a problem head on. Patience was a virtue that Sharon had never lacked. And now, here they were, wrapping up another Sunday brunch at her condo.

“My, my, my. You do surprise. This time with heavenly waffles. Then, and honestly Sharon, I truly despise you for fresh-squeezed orange juice-”

“Blood oranges.”

_“Blood oranges,_ I never. Then, to top it off, a yummy sparkling wine libation.” She licked her lips and cast what she hoped was a sly grin at her friend, but feared might be more of a delicately inebriated leer. “I didn’t take you for a booze-hound, Sharon.”

“’And wine maketh glad the heart of man.’” Sharon replied tranquilly. She gazed through the tall stemmed glass, through the slowly rising bubbles. She really could use a bath, maybe sleep for a year, she was so tired all the time. Maybe sleep forever… but, no. Because her phone was chirping insistently from somewhere in the foyer.

“Oh Lord, Sharon. Leave it. Pretend it’s broke. They can’t possibly be calling anyone of y’all back in. You hardly finished morn’ a couple hours ago!” But Sharon was already halfway through her living room. Brenda listened for a moment, _Raydor, Hello? Oh! Oh, honey. I’m so glad to hear from you!_ and breathed a sigh of relief. She knew all too well the wringer that was Major Crimes and was glad Sharon didn’t have to rush off. A sound caught her attention: Sharon snapping her fingers. Brenda looked at her, watched as Sharon pressed the phone against herself, against her chest, then dragged her eyes upward to see her friend mouth _It’s Rusty._ Sharon gestured toward the balcony, drink in hand and Brenda found herself nodding mutely. The smile on Sharon’s face made her heart ache. _And when had that started?_   Had she had that many mimosas? They were awfully delicious and those sweet drinks had a way of sneaking up on a body. But still. Every little thing seemed to pull her this way and that, she felt too emotional these days. She felt she wanted to be the one who made Sharon smile like that.

Sharon had left the sliding door open as she chose a sunshine dappled chair and settled in with Rusty. A warm breeze carried with it low sounds of the world and her unabashedly happy tones. _Warm,_ Brenda thought. Or more precisely: _warmth._ That was Sharon’s magic, what she possessed so deeply and shared so carefully with others. It was with difficulty that Brenda pulled her eyes away from the homey scene. Instead, she surveyed the damage done to her friend’s kitchen.

Of course Sharon was a tidy cook, cleaning as she went. A fragmentary memory, something about idle hands, something her momma always said when Brenda fussed about dinner chores. Oh, how Brenda had loathed doing them, loathed nearly all things domestic. Her momma was so contented in the kitchen and making her home just so. Finding tea towels for every holiday, sewing aprons to match—Brenda loved her mother dearly for it, but those were _her_ ways and Brenda hadn’t wanted to end up a housewife, taking care of kids and husbands and looking after everyone’s every little need. It was something her momma had done effortlessly, apparently happily or at least without complaint. That too was her way. But it had never been Brenda’s.

Yet, as she heard Sharon chatting merrily, she was compelled to clean up what little mess was left. She still felt badly about not helping the last time. Heaven knew her clutter and carelessness about the house had been the bane of dear Fritzi’s life, no need to torture Sharon as well. So simple to put the cup directly in the dishwasher, but she’d always left it on the counter or worse, the sink to gather water and debris. Fritz always cleared it away. Though that last year, truth told, he’d done so with increasing ire. But the fact was that as long as Fritz was willing to clean up, she was willing not to. She didn’t want to bother with domestic details. It never occurred to her that just because Fritz took care of it, didn’t mean he liked it any better. He just appreciated a tidy house; it made him feel calm and settled, something Brenda had a knack for undoing. In the beginning he’d thought of her chaos as a charming, energizing whirlwind. But in the end, it was just one more thing that Fritz found himself pushed away by.

She gathered up their sticky plates and rinsed them. _Sharon rinsed her plates before she put them in the dishwasher, right? And probably she arranged them in a particular way._ Brenda lowered the door, _yep, she sure did._ _Large plates on the right, small to the left and bowls in front. Lord have mercy. This woman._ Why hadn’t she done this for Fritz? She’d kind of tried, kind of meant to toward the end. When Fritz was so upset so much, tossing silverware down in a clatter at dinner, or keys when he got home. She remembered doors slamming as he left for a meeting or to go empty the kitty litter as he cleaned up after Joel. And she could have taken out the trash, meant to, but she’d forget. And then he’d try to talk to her and she was too focused on a case, distracted by the meanness of a crime, the need to clean up a mess she felt uniquely suited for—and then her momma wanted to talk and she’d been too busy for her also.

That terrible morning. She kept coming back to that terrible morning. And all she could remember was screaming and screaming and suddenly Fritz was lifting her away, pulling her away from the awful fixed look on her too still momma. She remembered meeting her daddy's eyes as he rushed past, more motion than she'd seen from him in ages, and how he'd just stopped, frozen in the doorway. Fritz had dragged her all the way into their bedroom. Had pushed her against the wall as she kept screaming and reaching and straining and had simply, gently held her until she’d collapsed inward, hollow and stunned. Only then had he left, speaking to her gently, telling her he needed to check on her daddy but he’d be back and just stay there.

That had basically been the end of everything. Fritz had been wonderful. But that was it. She wasn’t ever coming back from that last loss. Her momma was the bow and she was the arrow. And her momma’s release shot Brenda away from the routine of her life and into a new reckless and raw world that she didn’t have the energy to explain to anyone, not even Fritzi. Sweet Fritzi who had deserved better than a mourning wife who couldn’t even be home.

“Hey.”

Brenda leaped with a horrible thrill of adrenaline into the air.

“Brenda! I didn’t mean to startle you—” Sharon reached to steady the younger woman, wrapping her hand around Brenda’s arm, surprised by her reaction. She peered at her with concern as Brenda seemed to remember, with difficulty, how to breathe. “I finished up with Rusty and asked if you wanted to join me on the balcony, but you didn’t reply. When I came in you were just staring at the dishwasher...” Sharon paused and pulled off her glasses, looked closely at her flushed companion, “Honey, are you okay?”

And suddenly Brenda wasn’t okay at all.


	4. confessions

Sharon found herself steering a distraught Brenda toward her living room. She half lead, half pulled Brenda onto the couch—where she gave the weeping woman her full attention, as well as a box of tissues she’d snagged from the kitchen counter.

Brenda clutched at a few of the tissues, blew her nose noisily and looked through bleary eyes at nothing in particular. She stared out the windows for a long time, too long, tears falling freely, yet saying nothing. She seemed lost—indifferent to her surroundings, unaware of the strips of tissue she tore, balled up and let drop around her. Sharon was becoming truly alarmed. “Brenda” she said softly. “You can say whatever you might want to.” But Brenda simply continued to sit, sit and stare listlessly out the windows. Several minutes ticked slowly by, and Sharon wondered if she should break that silence. Finally, she simply added, “I won’t judge you, Brenda Leigh. You don’t have to say anything, but I can listen and be a friend. If you want.”

Brenda blinked. Looked down at her hands. Seemed surprised by the quantity of small white wads about her—and then took a long, deep breath.

“They say men need their women more, and that after the … death… of a spouse, men often quickly follow. An I’ve been so worried about Daddy, bein’ so sick an all, and finally gettin’ to feelin’ better. And then momma…” She looked down, cleared her throat that had become suddenly tight. “He’s lost without her, but he’s also got his Service friends who have been so supportive. He’s keeping busy, traveling between grandchildren, visiting other relatives. He’s even gone to an old Air Force reunion. He’s doin’ better than I could ever have hoped. Better ‘n’ me. I started off so scared for Daddy, but now it’s me that I’m afraid for.”

Brenda paused, looked a Sharon and shrugged helplessly. She didn’t know how to explain what she felt, how numb she’d become, but also how numb maybe she always was? And how could she think she was numb when Sharon was looking at her with such compassion she felt she might just break. Just clean in half: one part Before, one part After. So instead she just barreled on.

“Fritz, he did everything right, everything you’d want your spouse, your partner to do, but it just didn’t matter and anyways, I didn’t _want_ it. I felt guilty for not being more grateful, not being more kind, an then that’d make me so cross—! I knew I was being awful, but I couldn’t stop. He’d try harder, I’d get madder. I was so…it was like I was a lit fuse. Like I just couldn’t ever burn up enough to end it all or burn out enough to just give up. I think I wanted…I wanted _pain_ , and I think if Fritzi had just been able to sorta...disappear for a while and let me be? I think then maybe I coulda found my way back. But he couldn’t just leave. And I mean, what sort of a jerk would leave their wife after her momma just died?

“I remember being so worried before the weddin’, how I just knew I’d mess it all up and take this kind, wonderful man with me. I didn’t _want_ someone who’d depend on me. I didn’t want that mess. I didn’t want to be responsible for his happiness and I’m no good with that stuff. I mean, I can’t cook and I don’t hardly clean enough and I can’t barely be bothered to remember to feed the damn cat. And it _doesn’t matter_ that I love that cat, or that I love Fritzi. I just. Can’t. Do it.”

Sharon took note of Brenda’s use of present tense, but said nothing. She simply shifted forward a bit, turning more of her body to face Brenda. If Brenda was going to open her flood gates, the least Sharon could do was face it with her, head on. She reached for her friend’s hands and carefully held them in her own, rubbing slow circles across the back of Brenda’s palms. Brenda, for her part, seemed oblivious, her gaze fixed somewhere above the hazy city-scape. She just kept staring and letting the words tumble from her mouth.

“I, I tried to back outta the wedding. Fritzi just soothed all those troubles away, said he loved me so much he was willing to carry most of the weight of the relationship. And I’m such a coward that I let him. I just let him talk me down. He’s always been so good. So good to me. But I don’t think I actually wanted soothin.’ Not then. Or even goodness. I thought I did, cuz we spend so much of our time with _horrible_ people. And I wanted to believe in something happy, something loving. But Sharon, I’m not good.” She shook her head and frowned. “And I’m not really loving. I’m relentless. I can pry a confession out of a murderin’ psychopath like a champ. But I can’t keep house and remember to pick up the dry cleaning. And I don’t wanna. The fact is, I like messin’ with the bad guys. I like getting in their heads and I like winning. I like winning more than being good.”

She looked at Sharon then, for the first time, her eyes shining.

“You know that better ‘n’ anyone, Sharon. You _know_ what I did. Goldman wasn’t really wrong. I was. Everyone knew I was. David did. Fritzi did. Will and Gavin and Buzz and everyone. Except Flynn and Provenza and Julio. But that’s just because they’da done the same thing. Doesn’t make it _right_.” She took a shaky breath, and pulled her hands away from Sharon. “I think I’ve gotten too close to it.”

“To what, Brenda?" Sharon prompted gently.

“To pointlessness. To darkness. To knowing that we don’t really win. We’re putting Band-Aids on arterial spray and telling ourselves we like the rain.” She pushed up from the couch, and walked toward the balcony. She pressed a hand against the glass, looked through her fingers at the structures below. Divided the spaces up between her fingers. This space had a building. This space had a bird. Sharon leaned forward, but made no move to follow. She simply allowed the woman to continue.

“You know,” Brenda said, turning to look at Sharon over her shoulder, “Years ago there was this murderer: smart, handsome,” she paused, her mouth twisted in a sort of smile. “He liked to burn his victims from the inside out. ‘Just Plain Bill’ he said. He was charming, dangerous. I understood him and I liked him and he liked me right back. He used to visit me at my house. My house with Fritz.” She looked away, back at her hand dividing outside LA from inside Sharon’s condo. “In a _normal_ world as _normal_ people maybe we’da had an affair. But in our world, he maybe might have tried to murder me. So we drew a truce instead, he’d leave my jurisdiction, and I’d turn my attention closer to home.” She turned fully and pinned Sharon with a pained, glassy stare. “He’s _my type_ , Sharon. I want Fritzi to be my type. But it’s Stroh and Bill Croelick and people who lie and manipulate and juggle double lives. I know those people, Sharon. I can walk and talk and think just like ‘em and it’s a thrill. So maybe I’ve always been just a little bit too good a liar and too fast a talker. Good men let me go and I pursue the bad ones. When I’m tracking down killers, I’m Just Plain Brenda. But when I’m off work and having Happy Family? That’s when I don’t know who I am or how to be.”

Brenda could hear the plaintive, shrill note that had crept into her voice, but she couldn’t seem to stop, couldn’t stop talking.

“I’ve never had friends. I’ve never had a relationship work. I’ve disrupted families. I’ve taken my own for granted and _always_ resented having to inconvenience my own life to go back and visit them. I still do! I _still_ do even after momma—!” Wide-eyed, she’d finally managed to stem the tide, even if she’d had to press her own hands against her mouth. Even if she was biting down on both her lips so hard she could taste the tang of copper.

Sharon had been quietly, uneasily listening, nodding, keeping eye contact when offered. But as Brenda had spun herself out, she’d slowly risen from her seat and approached her with a calm borne from years of practice both as a single parent and a Jackson survivor. She placed her hand very deliberately on Brenda’s shoulder. The woman was on the edge of a breakdown, wound too tight and stretched too thin. Sharon could practically feel her vibrating with anxiety. But she also felt she’d heard enough confessions for the day. She moved them away from the windows, from the balcony, and back toward the comfort of her couch. She didn’t let go of Brenda, even as they sat down, even as Brenda looked at her with nothing but confusion and panic.

“You know,” Sharon began slowly, choosing her words carefully, “In our line of work some things _do_ need to kept hidden. Some details can’t be shared for simple matters of security, others from propriety. For those of us who deal with violence, secrets, a sliding scale of right and wrong? It can be very…difficult…to separate how we operate from who we are. You see what I mean? Duplicity, manipulation? Tools of the trade and there’s much to be said for solid trade-craft, as you very well know. In the best of circumstances it leverages the truth from lies. And, of course, there’s a certain amount of anonymity and freedom in playing a role…or,” she allowed a small smile, “a rank. There’s a bit of reinvention every time we step into a room with a perp. It can be…invigorating on many levels.”

She paused and peered at Brenda, whose breathing was not quite as shallow as it had been before. She could still see the woman’s pulse jumping in her neck, but she didn’t seem so raw, so unedited, so hell-bent on castigation. She nodded at Brenda, and Brenda nodded, ever so slightly back.

“But, then we have to shift our focus back to our families. We have to move from suspicion and control, toward being available and open. It’s a totally different rhythm and flow. I won’t say it _isn’t_ work, but the fact is, it does _take_ work. Managing the outrageous is demanding, yes, but the expectations of our loved ones can be much harder. I think we have to be very careful not to mix up our concept of what we _think_ is expected from us, from what might actually be the truth. And I think we need to be much more gentle and kind with ourselves than we typically are.”

She smiled at the younger woman, and patted her knee. Left her hand there and let the warmth just settle for a moment. Brenda had been listening intently, focused on the sound of Sharon’s measured tone. She felt a little less like bursting, a lot less like screaming. She looked down at Sharon’s hand on her thigh and watched as the Captain’s thumb stroked back and forth across the inside of her knee. It felt normal. It felt like comfort. And then Sharon was saying something to her. “—I said, for the next little while we’re not going to worry about whatever expectations people may or may not have. We’re not going to dwell on the past. We’re not going to think about the future. We’re just going to be together, you and me. Right now, yes?” Here Brenda bobbed her head vigorously: yes. “I’m going to excuse myself to the bathroom for a moment, and you’re going to make us tea. You know where I keep the tea and mugs. I think this calls for Earl Gray. While that’s steeping, you go freshen up a bit in the guest bath. And then we’re going to sit on this couch and watch at least a couple episodes of Badge of Justice. It is howlingly funny and doesn’t mean to be. _Never_ tell this to Tao. Or Andy. We’re going to have leftovers later for lunch and dinner will be the only decision we make today. Okay? Okay. Very good.” She gave a tap to Brenda’s knee and growled. “Now go get the mugs.”

Sharon made a shooing motion as she excused herself and Brenda found herself jumping to obey. It felt good, it felt really good to do something mindless, something helpful. She could be useful. She could sit with Sharon and watch TV. She could do that. She took a deep breath. It felt full and wide and she forgot to notice that her chest didn’t ache. Sharon didn’t hate her and she didn’t judge her. She might feel foolish later, but for now, she was a woman with a mission. She was going to make tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer 1: This story is intended for entertainment only. I neither own, nor profit from either The Closer or Major Crimes. Sadly, I also cannot profit from Casablanca, the movie that inspired both the title for this work as well as a couple other references.
> 
> Disclaimer 2: All mistakes, misspellings, etc. are mine alone. I review and edit myself, but I'm sure a few grim errors will pop up.


End file.
